


and so, she does

by deadmetal



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: (kinda), Alternate Universe, Deal with a Devil, Dimension 20 Big Bang, F/F, High Fantasy, Road Trips, Swords & Sorcery, i love to make self indulgent content, lesbian fast burn! lets go figayda uhaul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadmetal/pseuds/deadmetal
Summary: The gemstone around Fig’s neck begins to burn. Her tail wraps around her leg in joy, and her goal has shifted right before her eyes. “So we’re tracking down your father, then?”“Arthur Aguefort,” Ayda confirms. “He and my mother are paramours, so if someone were to know about other half-phoenix’s such as myself, it’d be him.”“Then we’re set!” Fig exclaims, twirling her lute around triumphantly. “This will be great. Thank you so much, Ayda! Do you want to come with me?”Sometimes, the person you're looking for has been in front of you all along.
Relationships: Ayda Aguefort/Figueroth Faeth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26
Collections: Dimension 20 Big Bang





	and so, she does

**Author's Note:**

> woooo!!!! d20bb!!!!!!! let's go!!!!!!!! please read all the other fics in the collection, there is so much care and love poured into all of these fics! I'm so happy to have been a part of it! <3
> 
> the main inspiration for this work was this homebrew (https://walrock-homebrew.blogspot.com/2017/01/bardic-college-college-of-crossroads_13.html) of a bard subclass, SPECIFICALLY the 5th option on the "Meeting at the Crossroads."
> 
> please enjoy!

The hot air of Avernus is perpetual, even inside the palace of an archdevil. It feels less _roiling_ though as if Fig were only standing above a pot of boiling water instead of being directly in it. It feels nice, comparatively.

What doesn’t feel nice, though, is sitting in the main office of Vraz the Mean. But Fig has a mission, and she’s desperate to make it happen. 

“You want my infernal instrument?” Vraz hums, twirling the devilish lute like it’s a baton. Fig’s eyes shine as the lute rotates: it’s made of Asmodian Pine, a deep red colored wood. There is a thick, shiny varnish on the lute to make it almost glisten when the fiery light hits it _just_ so. Carved into the pine there is an intricate set of wings, and near where the lute would be tuned, a pair of dragon wings extend off of the lute in an elegant flourish.

Fig’s fingers _ache._ It is so much more elegant than the lute currently on her back, plain and brown and boring. It was a gift from her father so many years ago when she first expressed interest in playing.

“Well, no,” Fig starts, sitting on her hands so she doesn’t gesticulate too much. “I want to get out of Hell. I want to see the world, but my parents won’t let me! And if _they_ won’t let me off the leash, then I’m pretty sure I can get out with someone else’s help. I figure if _someone_ can, say, _plane shift_ me out of here with a magic lute that makes my music sound better so I can make a living...” Fig says, eying Vraz.

Vraz the Mean sets the majestic lute down on the table. “You understand I can’t just _give_ it to you, right? Aren’t you a little young to be bartering with me?”

Fig rolls her eyes, leaning back against the chair. “I’m eighteen, _Vraz._ And duh. I know I need to be contractually bound to do you a solid if I want that lute. What do you want?”

The archdevil’s porcelain white face smiles, and it only looks a little uncanny. “About three centuries ago,” she purrs. A shiver makes its way up Fig’s spine — _bad! Stop that!_ “I was _defeated_ by a woman. She could’ve been a devil; her fire was certainly hot enough,” Vraz’s lip curls, and her fangs begin to drip venom. “However, she was a _fucking_ celestial! A half-phoenix! Back then, I was still a mortal that was yet to make my deals and make my way into the Nine Hells. She bested me in a competition of song. If you want my infernal lute, I need you to track down this fucking phoenix and reclaim my honor.”

Fig blinks. “You want me to beat a two-hundred-and-something-year-old half-phoenix at a talent show? In exchange for a plane shift spell and a fancy, magical lute?” 

“Was I not clear?” Vraz hisses. Her nails are starting to elongate and sharpen into claws. “I want you to _best_ her!”

“You were very clear!” Fig says, putting her hands up to placate the archdevil before her. “I was just making sure I understood the deal, sheesh. _Fine._ I, Figueroth Faeth — daughter of Gorthalax the Insatiable, Lord of the Bottomless Pit — swear to uphold the honor of Vraz the Mean in a competition of might and music.” 

Vraz’s lovely face relaxes once more, her fangs retracting and claws turning back into nails. _“Wonderful,”_ Vraz coos, snapping her fingers and a contract appearing before Fig’s face. Fig snatches it, reading it and re-reading it just like her parents taught her. She has a one year time frame to find and best this phoenix-woman lest she be brought back to Hell and forced to work in Vraz’s servitude for a still-undetermined amount of time. 

_I, Figueroth the Faithless, daughter of Gorthalax the Insatiable, swear to best this musically-inclined celestial in a duel of music and might in exchange for one year on the prime material plane, or else my soul belongs to Vraz the Mean for an undetermined period._

Fig sends Vraz the stink eye before she relents. She sighs and pricks her finger on her horns. In elegant Infernal, she uses her blood to sign her devilish name in the contract: _Figueroth the Faithless._ The contract bursts into flames and Vraz collects the ash, crushing it in her hand until it turns into a smoky gemstone. She gingerly places the gemstone in Fig’s hands. As it does so, the gemstone shifts into a triangle with rounded corners. 

“Take my lute, Figueroth,” Vraz smiles. “And take the pick — a symbol of our deal. Remember: you have my instrument for a year, or forever if you’re able to beat that phoenix. Wander the material plane as you wish, but make sure you finish your half of the deal before you show your elven face in Avernus again. Unless being a servant to the great archsecretary sounds palatable to you.”

With an eye roll, Fig snatches the infernal lute. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. See you later, Vraz. I’ll catch you when I kill this celestial.”

“See you later indeed, Figueroth the Faithless,” Vraz says cheerfully. Vraz snaps her fingers and Fig is immediately _plane shift-ed_ out of the Nine Hells and onto the material plane. 

“Shit.” Fig murmurs.

There are a few holes in Fig’s involvement in Vraz’s plan for vengeance:

  1. Fig’s parents don’t know she took the deal.
  2. Fig knows nothing of material plane geography.
  3. Fig does not know the name of this musically-gifted half-phoenix she is apparently supposed to kill. 



Her dad can probably scry on her, so the first one isn’t a _huge_ deal. She assumes she’ll be in for it when she succeeds and is contractually allowed back home, but until then, she’s good. The worst her parents can do is ground her, and hopefully, this mission takes at least a few months that they don’t have the heart to do it. 

The second one isn’t a huge deal either — Fig knows how to read maps. As long she has directions, she can figure it out. Illiteracy doesn’t seem to be too uncommon up in the material plane, so her being unknowledgeable about the local area isn’t strange, either. Being born and raised in the Nine Hells, literacy is _vital._ Without being able to read, one is sure to get tied into awful deals with awful devils. Any deal Fig makes isn’t so bad as a human making deals, since she’s destined to take over the Bottomless Pit anyway; she’s just getting her fun in now! Temptation means little to Fig. 

She ignores the weight of the lute on her back when she thinks that.

But the last one is certainly a problem. No name means she has virtually no leads to follow. Although to be fair, half-phoenixes don’t seem particularly common. Half-celestials would be the mirror to Fig’s half-infernal blood, and Fig has an inclination that all the angels up in heaven aren’t getting down and dirty the same way devils do. Of course, she knows her family is an exception. Sandralynn managed to con her way into Hell without dying and is sitting pretty on a throne alongside Gorthalax. 

Fig’s elven ears are a testament to _that._

Fig is certainly strange looking, but she likes to think her performances help keep the praises in people’s mouths and the insults out.

Vraz’s infernal lute truly works _miracles._ Fig was already good at playing musical instruments, but this lute makes music sound like perfection. She dons her dance shoes, the flowiest dress she has, and plucks at her lute as she sings. She twirls and belts across town squares, gold pieces flung at her at a truly impressive rate. After two months of traveling from town to town with Vraz’s lute, the name Fig Faeth is relatively well-known in middle-class circles. 

She’s making progress, at least. Her name getting out there means other performers will likely try to check her out, gauge her skill — and after she makes some friends, she can get some intel.

_Hard work pays off,_ Fig hums to herself, seated at a tavern in the town of Elmville. It’s a quaint tavern — _The Black Pit_ is carved into an oak sign outside. The drinks here are good, but the entertainment is even better. There’s an older half-elven man playing music, but he is certainly not the star of the show. There are two human women, similar in age to Fig, who are dancing with each other, ribbons in their hands. The shorter one is dressed in extravagant black and purple furs, her short flop of brown hair bouncing along with her as she moves. Moon jewelry embellishes her body, and Fig takes note; a follower of Galicaea. The other dancer is taller, dressed in bright yellows and whites, her long red hair tied back with bows decorated with suns; an obvious follower of Sol. Fig raises an eyebrow — two followers of the Sun and the Moon, dancing with one another. And a _human_ follower of the Moon, no less.

Her infernal blood flares up in her veins. It’s not anger or rage — that’d be silly. These two have nothing to do with her heritage. She’s just curious. Intrigued. Her father escaped these deities by falling. She stares, utterly transfixed by the followers of deities her father would rather reject. 

The older bard playing music looks to be getting tired, so during the quick break between dances, Fig discretely summons her infernal lute and offers to take his place. She takes a quick look at his sheet music and her pick glows. She takes his seat and strums the music perfectly — as the music picks back up, the human dancers begin to dance even more powerfully, their ribbons fluttering around each other perfectly. The other patrons of the tavern that weren’t paying attention suddenly begin to, and the magic of the lute takes over as she is also transfixed by the dancers.

Before she knows it, the routine is over and the dancers are bowing. Fig slinks off back to the bar, allowing her lute to disappear with the snap of her fingers. 

She takes a single sip of ale before she feels a tap on her shoulder. She turns around to see the two humans she played for.

“You play so wonderfully,” the taller Sun woman says, leaning heavily against the shorter Moon woman. “Tracker and I _really_ liked how you played your lute.”

The shorter woman smiles, holding out a welcoming hand. “I’m Tracker, and this is my partner, Kristen.”

Fig shakes the hand happily. “Partner as in dance partner, or partner as in romantic partner?”

Both women flush a little. “D-Dance partner,” Kristen assures, her green eyes flickering towards Tracker. Her cheeks are pink, although that could also be thanks to the intense show they just put on. “Where did you learn to play?”

Fig snorts at the change of topic. “I’m self-taught, actually. I’m Figueroth, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Tracker’s eyes widen, the red fading away from her cheeks. “We’ve heard word of your expertise. You’re slowly but surely becoming a famous one-woman act in Solace.”

The tiefling smiles, covering her mouth politely. “Thank you,” she says, eying the two women carefully. “You’re both holy women, yes?”

Kristen claps her hands excitedly. “Yes! I’m a priestess of the Sun, and Tracker is a priestess of the Moon. We travel through different towns trying to pique other people’s interest in the divine. Are you perhaps interested?”

A laugh escapes Fig before she can stop herself. “Flattering,” she assures them. “But I’m a tiefling… It’s unlikely that’d be well received. But if you’re well-traveled... I need to know if you know about a half-phoenix one-woman-show. An excellent bard, one of the best of her time. She was notably active around two hundred years ago.”

The two women exchange looks. “We’re humans, so we’re not _quite_ so long-lived, so these are all alleged… but there are rumors,” Tracker offers, her Moon earrings jingling as she tilts her head inquisitively. “Of a woman from long ago. She had eyes, hair, and wings of flame. They say she could use a flute like no other. But she hasn’t been seen in centuries. She could be dead.”

“But if she’s half-phoenix, maybe she comes back!” Kristen says. “The rumors say she was active on the sea… They say she’s from the pirate city at sea. Leviathan.”

“A swashbuckling bard,” Fig muses. “How interesting.”

Tracker and Kristen smile at each other. “If you’d like, we’d love to accompany you,” Tracker says. “People in Elmville are more ambivalent towards _most_ religions, so we’re not seeing too much overall success. Perhaps we’d have more luck at sea, amidst pirates and privateers.”

“Indeed,” Kristen says, her eyes flickering towards her companion’s for a moment.

“I’m down,” Fig says, flipping her long, brown tresses. “Shall we leave tomorrow?”

“We shall,” Kristen says.

The coast is a few days’ trip away, and they’re lucky enough to find that _The Hangman II_ is docked at the harbor when they arrive. _The Hangman II_ is a notorious ship — almost as notorious as its predecessor — and known for frequenting the Celestine Sea.

“You want a way to get to Leviathan!?” Fabian Aramais Seacaster bellows. His long, white hair is pulled back and braided, a saber at his side, and with an audience. Fig rolls her eyes. The priestesses behind her exchange nervous looks, but Fig waves the looks away.

 _“Yes,”_ she emphasizes. “I, Figueroth Faeth alongside my two companions Tracker and Kristen, would like to come on board and be taken to Leviathan.”

Fabian squints his one good eye at her. “A tiefling on a ship… I feel like I read that that’s bad luck somewhere. Did you know that—”

From behind Fabian, a goblin shoots his gun into the sky, the noise getting Fabian’s attention. “It’s not,” the goblin says, idly leaning back on a few boxes of cargo. “Stop trying to be cryptic, Fabian, just let them on. They’re _clearly_ willing to pay whatever toll you have to offer. And if not, Gorgug is right there.”

“I’d never do that, Riz. I think they’re nice,” remarks one of the tall half-orcs at Fabian’s side. He has a large axe strapped to his back and pirate garb that’s been half-patchworked to death, though it’s unclear if it’s worn down from battle or just age. The other one is a little taller, with a shorter haircut and a lance instead of an axe. His clothes are less patchworked, but not due to being in better condition. They are just left in disrepair. Fig respects the aesthetic. They both stand behind their captain — though not _looking_ intentionally menacing, certainly serving that part. “Why not hear them out?”

“Why must you boss around your _captain?”_ Fabian mutters. Fabian shoots the three crewmembers some dirty looks, although Fig also detects some fondness there. His half-elven features match a lot of Fig’s own: the clean, arched elven brow; the pointed ears. Of course, it is quite clear that Fabian’s other half is human: for his skin has no red tint to it, no horns poke out of his hair, and no tail makes its home between his legs. Although to be fair, Fabian’s father is a devil now. Not that he knows that yet.

“I’d be willing to exchange information that may be of extreme interest to you,” Fig says immediately. Fabian raises a brow, Gorgug tilts his head to the side, and Riz stops twirling his gun in his hand. Fig smiles something pretty and continues. “Do you know where your father is? Because I do.”

Fabian’s good eye narrows for a moment. “...My Papa is dead.”

Fig has to stop herself from snorting. _“Duh,_ of course he is. Everyone knows the story — you killed him with his own sword, you took his eyepatch, his last words were him commending you…” 

Fabian straightens out his posture, pride clearly glowing off of his frame. Fig takes the opportunity to sink her fangs into that pride. Although she notes that it’s not him she has to convince — he will be easy. It’s Riz, Ragh, and Gorgug that will be a challenge. As soon as she brought up Bill Seacaster, their eyes were trained on her like she had a knife ready to plunge into Fabian’s other eye. She’s not so stupid as to try and make the goblin with a gun or the half-orc with an axe about as big as she is suspicious enough to attack her, but she can still try to weasel her way onto a ship without paying a single piece of gold. This is in her blood! Convincing people to do things for her with only her words and the information she selectively shares is what she was born to do.

“Well, I know where he went _after_ that. He’s not just resting on a big old pirate ship in the sky, you know. I can tell you everything I know if you take the three of us to Leviathan.”

Riz’s yellow eyes lock with Fig’s own black ones, and she channels all of her charisma into the smile she offers to Fabian, Gorgug and Riz. Fabian stares at Fig and lets go of all of his gravitas. _“Fine,”_ he relents. “That information is valuable enough to me that I accept your deal. _The Hangman II_ can add another three bodies onto the deck. Kristen and Tracker, you’re holy women, aren’t you?”

The two priestesses nod their heads.

“Then you can be of use until we reach the floating city. Alright, that’s _it!_ No more bodies allowed on deck!” Fabian announces. “We depart at sunset today, so if you’re not here we’re leaving you in Solace.”

Fig gracefully curtsies, giving Fabian a bit of a stink eye before twirling her way to Riz. “Hello,” she trills, strumming a few strings on her lute. “I’m Figueroth.”

“Riz,” the goblin clips out, an eyebrow raised. “Do you _really_ know information about Fabian’s dad?”

Fig grins, her sharper canines dragging against her lip as she does. “Of course! I’m but a humble bard, it is my job to spread stories and lore.”

“Humble,” Riz echoes. He does relax, though. “Sure. Why do you need to go to Leviathan?”

Fig’s smile falls a little as she allows her face to become more serious. “I’m looking for someone,” she says, shoving as much serious infliction as she can. The common tongue works really well for lying — it’s far more vague than Infernal. “Do you happen to know of a half-phoenix that lives in Leviathan?” Fig asks. It’s a simple strategy: being specific enough to make it seem like she knows what she’s talking about, but still vague that anything Riz may say will clarify what Fig needs the most.

Riz blinks up at her. “Ayda Aguefort?”

Fig’s grin returns at lightning speed. Success! “Yes, I’m looking for Ayda Aguefort.”

“She’s cool,” Riz says. “She’s friends with another... crew member of ours. She’s a lore keeper.”

“We have that in common, then,” Fig says, soaking as much as she can. “What kind of lore does she keep?”

“Are you trying to find her so that you can learn more?” Riz asks in lieu of answering. “Bards like knowing stuff, don’t they?”

Fig laughs. “We do,” she says. “You can’t make stories without knowing what people want to have stories about, you know? Supply and demand.”

“Supply and demand.” Riz echoes. 

“Business,” the half-orc, Gorgug, offers, cutting into the conversation. “We do that.”

“You sure do,” Fig says, aiming a smile at Gorgug. “Say, what’s Leviathan like?”

He tilts his head to the side and hums. “Hm… Depends on where you are. Leviathan is very big. _I_ think the Gold Gardens is the best part of the whole city. I got a matching tattoo with Riz there.”

Riz immediately turns to Gorgug and punches his thigh. “Shh! People aren’t supposed to _know_ about that!”

Fig cackles, and a quiet tip-tip-tap clicks on the deck of _The Hangman II._ She turns her head to see a tall elven woman with a short bob of blonde hair decorated and bedazzled with elven ribbon. She’s dressed in pirate’s garb, but Fig doesn’t miss the subtle refinery of her stature; the way she tilts her chin, the way her toes are pointed _just_ so, and the barely-there wrinkle in-between her eyebrows that make it clear she’s frowned a lot in her youth. 

“Who’s this?” The elf asks, her voice soft and proper. Riz gestures at Fig’s lute and shrugs.

“I’m Fig,” she introduces, twirling on the high heel of her shoes, the skirt of her dress flourishing around her the way a poppy looks in full bloom. “I’m headed towards Leviathan. I need to talk to Ayda.”

“Adaine,” the elf clips out, as though there is an underlying bitterness in her words — it does not seem to be pointed at Fig, but it seems to be a part of her general disposition. “I’m friends with Ayda.”

“Fun!” Fig says sweetly. “I’m hoping to be friends with her. I need her help with something, I’m looking for answers about some things that happened a long time ago.”

“The Compass Points has good information,” Adaine nods. “It’s an old library, you’ll probably find whatever you’re looking for there. She’s very thorough.”

“I bet she is,” Fig says, fidgeting with her pick. “After all, not just _anyone_ can be a lore keeper, right? That kind of thing takes a special kind of patience.”

Adaine raises a brow, the wrinkle in her glabella more evident now. “I guess you’re right.” 

After that, Fig keeps bugging Fabian or sticking close to the priestesses, and before she knows it _The Hangman II_ is undocked and soaring across the Celestine Sea. It’s not too long of a trek: only two days. It’s noon, the Sun high in the sky, and Kristen waxing some type of gospel before it is suddenly obscured by a large, imposing shadow. The Pirate City of Leviathan in all its glory, any illusion magic slipping through its many cracks as the _Hangman II_ approaches. 

“Woah,” Fig gasps, hands pressed against the edge of the boat. She’s seen bigger — her dad’s house is certainly bigger — but that’s a castle on _stable ground._ This is a floating city made of flotsam and jetson, magic and ingenuity barely keeping it together. A grin presses itself into Fig’s cheeks and she feels excitement fill her heart and begin pumping through her veins. “It’s beautiful!”

Adaine clicks her tongue. “Is it? It’s rather messy, isn’t it?”

Fig sputters. “That’s what makes it so cool! It _shouldn’t_ be able to float, but it does! Isn’t that so cool to you?”

“I’ve been here too many times to be too fond of Leviathan if I’m honest,” she says, wiping away wrinkles from her skirt. She tilts her head so she can look at one of the highest points on the pirate city, pointing at a tall, round building. “But I will be headed there, to the Gold Gardens. The Compass Points is nearby there if you’re looking for Ayda.”

“Great!” Fig says. “I’m excited to see the sights.”

“The sights aren’t so extravagant, but they are a little fun. The Gold Gardens is a bit of a party district, full of performers and… practitioners. Druids _love_ it there, you know?”

Fig snorts. “I definitely know. I’m a performer by trade! That sounds just like my type of scene.” 

“You probably could play a little,” Adaine says, walking towards a little connector bridge that Fabian’s raised so there is a passage onto the pirate city. Fig follows her, waving goodbye at the rest of the crew. “The Gold Gardens is where pirates go to lose the money they just took. Lots of pretty people go there, play what they’re going to play, and make gold only to lose it in the same place they made it. _I_ go there to get some peace and quiet.”

“Huh.” Fig lets out. “But it’s a party district?”

“There are rooms above,” Adaine says. Adaine, in her slightly pompous walk, does not even flinch among the pirates. She’s dressed like them, sure, but it’s clear to Fig that her disposition is a clear contrast. Fig sticks close to Adaine’s side and is thankful for the few extra inches her boots and horns grant her. Adaine is very tall, especially when compared to Fig. She doesn’t stand out too much like this.

If anyone makes snide comments, Fig doesn’t hear them, because the Gold Gardens are _incredible._ The debris and grime of Leviathan melt away the higher they get, closer to the point where Adaine had pointed before.

Adaine stops in front of what looks like a combination of a concert hall and pub. “Welcome to the Gold Gardens,” she says. “The Compass Points is that way, you won’t miss it.” 

“Thank you!” Fig says, smiling. Her lute wants to be played so badly, and the Gold Gardens _would_ be perfect, but Fig has a duel to win.

The Compass Points Library is simple in its beauty. It’s a contrast to the rest of the ship, a clean, sleek black polished wood against dusty and salty brown debris mended together to make the floor Fig stands on. She enters in a flurry, walking past the ancient man at the front desk and wandering until she sees someone that looks like the half-phoenix Ayda Aguefort.

She is walking up some stairs, and her mouth parts a little as she sees what looks like a very large tropical bird. The wings are bright red-orange-yellow, and Fig narrows her eyes. 

“Excuse me!?” She calls out.

The figure twitches, then yawns, the wings stretching out at their full span giving Fig a clear look at the owner of said wings.

A woman.

An extremely pretty woman.

A resplendent woman with fire for hair and bird legs dressed like a pirate-sage. Incredible. 

“Are you Ayda?” Fig asks.

“Who is asking?” The woman squints.

“I’m Figueroth, but my friends call me Fig. You’re welcome to call me that.”

The woman blinks once, twice, three times; and bursts into flaming tears.

“Um.” Fig says.

“Fig!” The woman says excitedly. “I am Ayda, you are correct. And we are friends. As you’ve stated. That’s so exciting!”

 _Cute,_ Fig thinks. “Yeah, that is exciting. Uh. I was. Um,” she looks around everywhere but Ayda. “ _sent here to challenge you.”_ she mumbles.

Ayda tilts her head inquisitively, and the gesture is so cute that Fig has to stop herself from making an embarrassing noise. “I was sent here to challenge you.” Fig repeats, wincing as she says it.

“In a wizard duel?” Ayda asks.

Fig lifts a finger and falters in her words. “Ah,” she lets out. “Well. No. You — You _are_ a half-phoenix, right? Didn’t you… Do you play an instrument?”

Ayda shakes her head, her hair moving like the lit wick of a candle moves when a nearby window is open and a soft breeze comes through. “I am a half-phoenix, yes. And no, I don’t play an instrument by trade. Why?”

Fig winces, her tail swishing nervously. “Well. According to a very powerful archdevil, _you_ bested her in a battle of skill and technique… a music competition. Do you know the name Vraz? Vraz the Mean?”

Ayda frowns. “I don’t.”

“Ah.”

Fig squints at Ayda. She doesn’t seem like she’s lying; Fig’s not sure Ayda even _can_ lie. The honesty radiates off of her in spades— a total contrast from Fig herself. Silence fills the room. Only the distant shouts of pirates penetrate the silent space between the two of them. Ayda looks down at Fig and her frown deepens. “Another half-phoenix…” She trails off, beginning to tap her finger against her chin. After a few seconds, her wings immediately spread to their full wingspan and she takes off deeper into the library.

“Wh-Where are you going!?” Fig whisper-shouts, following suite. The Compass Points is a maze of books, carefully taken care of but messily labeled. The only trail left behind is a flurry of loose pages that are still slowly fluttering onto the floor. It takes a while, but Fig eventually finds her in a little secluded corner of the Compass Points. There is a small room here, only curtained off, and Fig can see the top of Ayda’s fiery wings from outside the curtained off space. “Ayda?”

The curtains swish off to the side, and the Lady of the Compass Points is flipping through a journal. It’s clearly over a century old, though it has been meticulously well kept. There is a fancy engraving on the cover that reads _1,_ and beneath the _1_ is a somewhat scraped off subtitle that Fig can’t make out. It looks like a completely different script than Common, Infernal, or Elvish. 

Ayda closes the book harshly and looks directly at Fig. “No, it’s not me,” Ayda says, eagle-eyes trained on her. “However… Considering his track record, there is a possibility… Hm. Fascinating.” She studies Fig’s face for a moment before nodding resolutely. “I do not know if another half-phoenix exists, but I know who might.”

Fig grins. “Who?”

Ayda’s resplendent wings of fire almost seem to get bigger though her eyes get downcast. “My father.” 

The gemstone around Fig’s neck begins to burn. Her tail wraps around her leg in joy, and her goal has shifted right before her eyes. “So we’re tracking down your father, then?”

“Arthur Aguefort,” Ayda confirms. “He and my mother are paramours, so if someone were to know about other half-phoenix’s such as myself, it’d be him.”

“Then we’re set!” Fig exclaims, twirling her lute around triumphantly. “This will be great. Thank you so much, Ayda! Do you want to come with me?”

Ayda stumbles as if she tripped despite not moving. “Excuse me?”

“Do you want to come with me!?” Fig repeats, more excited this time. “We’re going to need to find your dad for some answers, don’t you think he’d like to see his other daughter?”

Ayda blinks and tilts her head. “Fig, do you not know who Arthur Aguefort is?”

“...No?” Fig mirrors Ayda’s tilt and tries for a charismatic smile. No one knows she grew up in Avernus — it’s not really a devastating secret, it’s just nobody’s business.

“Impressive,” Ayda says softly. “Most people say that my father is the most powerful wizard in Spyre. It is said he moved the sun and put it where it currently floats in the sky. He is not just _some wizard,_ as much as I wish he were. If we are only going to ask him a question, I imagine just the two of us should be sufficient. But if you’d feel more secure requesting the help of Captain Fabian, I would not mind that at all.”

 _I just want to spend time with you and get to know you better, you’re so interesting,_ Fig doesn’t say. “I think we can handle it; we’re two powerful young ladies, right?”

“I _am_ the most powerful wizard on Leviathan,” Ayda says evenly. “That is factual. Even Adaine cannot cast all the spells that I can, and she’s a magnificent wizard in her own right.”

The charisma melts away and Fig is left with a smile that presses the apples of her cheeks into her eyes. “I’d love it if you came with me.” she says genuinely.

A softer smile finds its way onto Ayda’s face. It is earnest and lovely. “Then I would like to accompany you.”

There is a still strength to Ayda, even while she is mobile. Her bright red-orange-yellow wings flap and as little sparks fall off of them in lovely circles, her eyes do not waver from their intended destination. From the tight embrace of Ayda’s arms Fig watches, mesmerized, as the night sky passes them by, the two of them a collective shooting star. Fig can’t even feel the cool night breeze. The tattooed glyphs on Ayda’s arms radiate a warmth that presses tightly to Fig’s back, and it’s so nice Fig could most certainly sleep here.

The Celestine Sea crests below, its sounds blending into white noise alongside Ayda’s heartbeat. Fig’s heart feels fuzzy.

It’s… nice. She’s nice.

It’s a different warmth than the warmth back home. Back home, there is no _warmth._ It’s all _heat._ It is hot and sweaty and insufferable, as Hell should be. Fig doesn’t really find an issue with it. She was raised there, so it’s all she really knows. She is still getting used to the cool air of the material plane, where it can actually get cold. Avernus isn’t ever cold, and Fig’s never been below the first layer.

But Ayda… Ayda is warm. Maybe it is the fire that is a part of her, but Fig can’t be so sure. There’s a part of her that’s certain it’s just Ayda.

“Ayda?” 

“Mm? Do you need anything?”

“No, I just want to have a conversation,” she says earnestly. Fig plays with some loose skin around her fingernail to distract herself. “What’s your dad like?”

There is a moment of hesitation before Ayda responds. She feels Ayda shrug as they fly. “If I’m being truthful, I’m not quite sure. He is strong enough to move the Sun, which raises… questions? The god of the Sun lives in his Heavenly Realm which projects as a physical form, which is what we see as the Sun. I am terrified to consider the implications of my father using his will to just... move a plane of existence? He’s not _evil,_ if he was he’d be such a pain to deal with.”

Fig hums. “Do you _know_ your dad? Like, have you met him before?”

Ayda shakes her head slowly. “I may have, once,” she says cryptically. “I was raised in The Compass Points, but my father left me a boon long ago should I ever need his help, and I needed to find him,” she says, adjusting her hold on Fig. One arm holds Fig’s waist tightly, the hold pressing Fig closer to Ayda. She feels her blood rush to her cheeks. _Strong._ Ayda slows her flight, fluttering her wings so she can stay in place, and showing Fig a small ring on her index finger. Instead of a gem embellished on the ring, there is a compass pointed in the direction Ayda is flying in.

Ayda readjusts her hold and continues flying, two arms secured around Fig once again.

“We-Well! I hope he’s happy to see us! Or see _you,_ I should say. You’re his daughter, after all, I hope that means good things!” Fig says, distracted by the quiet thrum of Ayda’s heart and the warmth coming off of her in waves.

“I do, too,” Ayda murmurs. “You can sleep if you would like, I do not mind. I’ll make camp for us soon once I find an ample-sized rock for the two of us. There are many stone pillars that poke out the sea.”

“Okay,” Fig says. And just like that: Ayda’s heartbeat, the sound of the sea, and the warmth of it all lulls her to sleep. 

Fig wakes up on a smooth, warm stone, the sun just beginning to rise over the Celestine Sea. Ayda is perched on the edge of the stone pillar poking out the sea, the gold of her talons gleaming as the sun glares off of them. She cuts an intimidating silhouette — she’s so tall, and the shock of fire that rests on her head almost seems brighter than the sun itself. 

But as soon as she turns around, the intimidating silhouette melts away. “Fig,” Ayda acknowledges. Her posture relaxes, and her face almost goes soft. “Good morning. We stopped because I sensed malevolent magic over the sea. Powerful sorcery.”

“Huh,” Fig tilts her head, running her fingers through her hair to untangle it and plait it again. “Well… We need to go that way though, right? That’s where your compass is pointing?”

“Indeed,” Ayda frowns. “I do not know why my father would have made it so difficult to reach him.”

Fig shrugs. _“Dads._ They have a tendency to be weird. Do you have a sense of what it might be that’s hiding in the water?”

Ayda shakes her head. “Powerful enchantment magic is all I can really make sense of. You can imagine water dulls my ability to sense magic if it’s beneath the depths, as I am a being of fire.”

“Makes sense to me!” Fig says, finishing tearing a nasty knot apart with her hands, and beginning to plait her hair messily. “Not like I can sense it much better than you can. How much farther? Can your compass tell you that?”

“No, I don’t believe it can,” Ayda frowns at the ring on her finger. “I just know we have to fly over the strange magic ocean. I hope it’s nothing too terrible, and if it is I hope we can handle it. I’m a very powerful wizard.”

“And I’m a pretty talented bard,” Fig declares, finishing off her braid with a flourish. The wind kicks up as if to help her, picking up her braid and blowing it behind her dramatically. Her dress’s skirt follows suit. “I’m sure it’ll be fine!”

Ayda nods her head and spreads her arms out. Her wings frame her body, and it’s just so easy for Fig to let herself fall into Ayda’s arms. She finds that Ayda is very good at holding her. She squeezes Ayda’s arms in her embrace and shuts her eyes as they take off once more. 

It’s a decently smooth ride, the wind making it too loud for any conversation to be had until Fig’s ears twitch and she can catch the faint sound of singing. “Woah,” she whispers. “Ayda, do you hear that?”

Ayda slows down, and the wind quiets around them. The sea crests below, still muffling the voice. It’s still much clearer than it was before, tantalizing in its sound. They’re so close! Fig tries to extend her hearing as far as she can, and catches a melody. “Someone’s singing,” Fig says. “It’s _really_ pretty.”

“Oh? Are you sure? I am still sensing...” Ayda flies a little closer to the water, and even the slightest change in height brought new clarity to the music in Fig’s ears. Ayda’s voice fades away. It’s striking. The voice singing is in perfect pitch, and Fig feels the closest approximation to _sparkles._

“Pretty…” Fig trails off, eyes searching the water. “Let’s get closer.”

Ayda listens, and they get even _closer_ to the water, only a few meters above the surface of the water. Fig blinks, the sparkles suspending inside of her chest. Wait, didn’t Ayda say the water is full of weird magic—

The singing is even louder, clearer, and the sparkles in Fig’s chest feel like they are gleaming like crystals. That’s not right at all! She’s not — she doesn’t get to feel sparkly. She’s _Fig._ Something’s wrong. “Oh, oh _shit,”_ Fig curses, shaking her head and feeling the sensation fizzle away. A giggle echoes and the singing resumes. “It’s a siren!”

“The singing is rather lovely,” Ayda muses slowly. Her hold on Fig is looser than usual. Fig’s head snaps forward to make eye contact with Ayda, and it’s with horror that Fig feels them begin to angle towards the ocean. 

“Ayda!” Fig shouts, palms pushing against Ayda’s chest. She’s enraptured, her flaming eyes unmoving as Fig shouts. “Ayda, can you hear me!?”

No response. 

The giggle comes back, cutting into the song, and Fig senses an opportunity. The space is too small for her to play her lute, but that’s okay. She sucks in a breath, shuts her eyes tightly, and begins to sing her own song. Fig presses her chin to Ayda’s shoulder and _sings._ She reaches for the same song Kristen and Tracker had danced to in Elmville, the vibrant dance, the brightness of their swishing fabrics, belting as loud as she can to block the voice of the siren.

Fig feels the wind pick up again, and the feeling of hitting the water never comes. Her hair is blowing in the wind, a long braid trailing behind her as she flies. Ayda’s hold feels firm again.

It isn’t until Fig’s voice lets up that she stops; until her throat is so sore and scratchy it hurts to swallow that she lets herself stop singing. She opens her eyes and pulls back, and Ayda offers her a strained smile. Her eyes have gone wet with liquid fire.

“Thank you,” Ayda says through her tears. She adjusts her hold so that Fig is only sitting on one arm as she wipes at her eyes. “Would you like to stop to take a break? You should probably— You should drink water. The strange magic feeling is gone now. We passed over it. It was probably just a siren.”

Fig tries to speak but finds that she can’t without her throat feeling like sand has been poured into her mouth. She settles for a nod.

Ayda purses her lips together nervously and settles them back down on another stone pillar. 

“Figueroth,” Ayda immediately frets, tugging her water gourd off of her belt and putting it in Fig’s hands. “That—You—You saved us.”

Fig takes small sips of water. “I—” she cringes at the feeling. Her voice is shot. “It was nothing.”

Ayda shakes her head fiercely, her hair moving like a candle. “It was _everything,_ what are you talking about?! I would have soared into the water if you had not blocked the sirens’ song with your own voice.”

“I—It’s hard to talk,” she prefaces. “But I—of course I would have. Otherwise, we’d both die.”

Ayda slumps her shoulders. “Let me thank you. You didn’t have to waste your voice on me. You could’ve… Done a spell. Or something. Instead of hurting your voice for my sake. I _knew_ the water was dangerous but didn’t follow my own advice.”

Fig blinks. “Oh. I… I forgot about my spells. I didn’t think I had the time to cast a spell before we would’ve gone underwater.”

Ayda smiles a little, though her eyes are still watery. “All I ever think about is my spells.”

“That’s not true,” Fig manages. She takes another sip of water, trying to quell the pain. “I’m sure you have other thoughts in that big, beautiful brain of yours.”

“Beautiful?” Ayda tilts her head inquisitively.

Fig feels her cheeks heat up. “Well. You know. Yeah.” She looks away.

Ayda hands her another water gourd. “Yeah. I suppose I do know.”

She’s still crying, and Fig bites her lip. “Come on,” Fig says. “You don’t have to cry.” She reaches a hand out, her index finger wiping away a flaming tear. Ayda’s breath hitches, eyes open wide in wonder. 

“You can— You do not burn?” Ayda grabs Fig’s hand, her fingers pressing into Fig’s palm inquisitively. 

“No,” Fig’s tail swings back and forth nervously. Ayda’s hands are _warm._ “I — Fire resistance.” she manages. 

Ayda nods slowly, sniffling a little bit. “How?”

“I’m from Hell,” Fig says, flicking her horns. That should be enough explanation. Ayda brings Fig’s hand closer to her face, pressing Fig’s fingers down into a fist. Then she peels up the index finger and wipes away at another tear. It sizzles on Fig’s flesh, but it doesn’t burn. Fig gently pulls her hand out of Ayda’s grip and instead steps closer; holding her face and using her thumbs to push the remaining tears of fire away. They tremble _just_ so.

Ayda gasps and Fig feels her face getting hot. She steps back again and holds her traitorous, shaking hands behind her back.

“Fire isn’t a big deal,” Fig pushes the words out of her mouth. “You don’t-You don’t need to cry for me. It’s my f-fault we stopped to hear the singing anyway, and—”

“Don’t strain your voice,” Ayda interrupts. “It’s no one’s singular fault. What matters is that you’re okay. Drink some more water and we can head off again if you’d like.”

Fig almost talks back, but she doesn’t. She holds her tongue, nods, and finishes the last of the gourd. Ayda nods, satisfied, and brings Fig back into her arms again. It’s noticeably tighter than before, and Fig tries to resist the urge to cuddle into it. But Ayda is so warm, so strong, and so steady… Fig can’t help herself. She sinks into the hold, resting her face on Ayda’s collar, and shuts her eyes.

Ayda adjusts accordingly and doesn’t say a word. Fig swears she can feel Ayda smile.

It’s nice.

It doesn’t take long after that. Why would it, when they can fly? They have resources for a few days of travel, and Ayda has a compass that shows her the way without fail. There is a group of stone pillars, spread out and angled until they meet at a point. A flat circle of stone sits on top of the pillars’ point, and Fig quirks a smile at the shape. It’s a nest.

She says as much, and Ayda hums. Her hands feel warmer around Fig as she points it out. 

“The ring’s needle is beginning to spin in circles,” Ayda says. “That must be it.”

“I hope so! I don’t want you to get too tired carrying me like this.” Fig says.

Ayda shakes her head. “I will not get tired. I am very strong.”

Fig blushes a little bit, so she tucks her head onto Ayda’s shoulder, away from her piercing gaze. “Yes, I—I know you are.” 

It is quiet as they descend onto the stone nest. Ayda waves her hand to dispel an enchantment, magic dissolving at her fingertips. Fig feels a rush of wonder at the sight. After a few moments, a blast of blue energy bursts across the area.

“WHO GOES THERE—Oh my! Ayda, is that you, my sweet daughter?”

A thin, wiry old man with dark skin and a long, purple robe exits from the epicenter of the energy blast. He has a striking resemblance to Ayda, and Fig connects the dots.

“Arthur… Father?” Ayda tries the word on her tongue. “Hello. Yes. I’m Ayda.”

“Ayda!” Arthur opens his arms but does not seem to expect a hug. Ayda does not seem to anticipate giving one, either. Luckily for her, though, Arthur speaks again. “Only someone from our family can break through the enchantments I have around my stony home! I must say, I did not expect to see you… Ever? But I am happy that I have been given the opportunity! Who is your friend?” He inquires.

“I’m Fig,” she says, doing a curtsy. “I’m here to accompany your daughter… Well, really she’s here to accompany me. I need your help… I actually just need to ask you some questions?” Fig stammers, folding her hands nervously together. 

“Ah!” Arthur claps his hands together. “Ask away! Any friend of my daughter is welcome here! Please, come inside!”

At first, there doesn’t seem to be anywhere _inside_ to come to, but Arthur waves a hand, and a small hut comes into focus. Fig dutifully follows behind Ayda and her father and blinks as the hut transforms into a magnificent mansion.

They make small talk for a few moments before Fig manages to get out the big one:

“Do you have other children? Half-phoenix children? Or do you know of any?” Fig asks anxiously.

Arthur tilts his head inquisitively, a perfect mirror of what Ayda does when she’s confused. 

“No one else is as smart or as charming as I am to get a phoenix paramour,” Arthur says slowly. “As far as I know… No, Ayda’s the only one. I don’t _think_ I have other children with Ayda’s mother, I’m sure she’d tell me!”

The world comes crashing down around Fig. Her eyes shift to Ayda before she presses a fake smile into her cheeks. “Okay! Um, how’d you move the Sun!?”

Arthur Aguefort begins to tell a long story that Fig doesn’t really care to listen to because she is spiraling. _Ayda_ is the bard? How is that possible?

Fig blinks as Arthur speaks, processing none of his words. She nods and makes noises of acknowledgments as her mind races. How _old_ is Ayda? She can’t be too much older than Fig. Vraz said _three centuries ago._ Could Ayda be that old? Old elves start to look old at around five hundred, and Ayda is half human! She _can’t_ be immortal… 

She lets her mind wander, and Arthur Aguefort’s hand brings her back to reality as it rests on her shoulder. “Figueroth, my girl, would you like something to eat?”

“I’m fine,” Fig says weakly. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Arthur goes on his toes to meet Ayda’s height and very audibly says, “She’s a keeper. I think she likes you.”

Ayda immediately gets flustered, and as she stammers at her father, Fig slips out of Arthur’s hut. She leans against the door for a moment and just _stares._

She begins to pace. Is it really Ayda? It has to be. It happened _at_ the Compass Points, and she’s _there_ but Ayda isn’t _that old—_

“Fig?”

Fig jumps, startled. She turns around to see Ayda, wings folded carefully. “Shit! You scared me, oh my gosh.”

“Apologies,” Ayda says earnestly. “Are you okay?”

Fig bites her lip. “Ayda, I… How _old_ are you?”

Ayda startles at the question. “I… This version of me is nineteen.”

“This version?”

The wizard seems to consider her words before sighing deeply.

“I have not been totally forthcoming with you,” Ayda says, eyes pointed firmly to the ground. “I… _I_ am Ayda Aguefort, wizard-librarian and mistress of the Compass Points Library. However, I have been Ayda Aguefort more than once before. My lineage… My mother being a phoenix means something, you know.”

Fig shakes her head. “Ayda, I—”

Ayda raises her hand and Fig pauses. “Please, let me explain. You… You are fire resistant, you do not burn when you wipe away my tears. You understand inheriting the traits of our parents. My mother, she… She dies and comes back every so often, and as do I. The difference is that I forget.”

“I, I don’t—” Fig sucks in a breath. So it’s true. “So, you’re saying a _past version_ of yourself could maybe have been a bard?”

Ayda shrugs helplessly. “I do not have my memories. I have journals that past selves have written, and from them, I can glean that I am about 175 years old. Why?”

Fig hesitates. It’d be so easy, right? Ayda’s fire doesn’t hurt her the same way. She could do this. Right here, right now. Fig opens her mouth to speak; to summon her lute, cast a spell, _anything—_

“I can’t,” she whispers, pained. “I- Ayda. Listen to me. You… You don’t have to explain what you don’t want to. It’s your business, and—”

“I _want_ to share it with you,” Ayda says, stepping closer and clutching Fig’s hands. They’re so warm, and her hands stop shaking as soon as Ayda touches her. This isn’t fair, Fig thinks. Ayda brings Fig’s hands closer to her lips, knuckles an inch away from her mouth. “I trust you.”

Fig breaks. 

She pulls her hands back, hugging herself and summoning her lute. “Ayda, I can’t, we can’t, this is… This isn’t _right.”_

Ayda looks distraught. “Fig, I don’t understand. What aren’t you saying? I thought… Did my father misinterpret? Did _I_ misinterpret?”

She shakes her head immediately. “N-No, you didn’t misinterpret anything… Your dad- Aguefort, he wasn’t _wrong._ I like you a lot. But I can’t do this. I—I haven’t been honest with you.”

Ayda tilts her head to the side and steps forward. Fig tries to go into a defensive stance to try and keep her heart sturdy but to no avail. She’s not into it. She doesn’t _want_ to defend from Ayda like this.

“Ay-Ayda, I’m sorry,” Fig weeps, letting her lute fall to the ground. The wood doesn’t even scratch as it hits the jagged rocks below. Ruby red light glows off of where the lute fell, but Fig doesn’t bat an eye. “I- I can’t. We can’t do this, I—”

“Fig, what’s going on?” Ayda asks softly, her hands pressing down on Fig’s shoulders like a comforting weight. “We came all this way for answers, didn’t we? Were they not satisfactory?”

Fig squeezes her eyes shut, the tears slipping past regardless. “I— You don’t _get it._ You’re not actually 175 years old, you’re older than that. Ayda, _you’re_ the person I need to kill, or else Vraz the Mean is going to make me her intern for eternity. But I don’t want to do that. I li—I care about you too much, I can’t hurt you, but I don’t want my soul to belong to someone else, either—”

Ayda’s hands slip away from Fig’s shoulders and instead move to the small of her back, and she pulls Fig in close and gives her a tight hug. “Figueroth Faeth, daughter of the Bottomless Pit, I swear on the nine winds and the seven stars and all the secret names of the Earth and beyond, I shall help you. This is my vow.”

“I’m supposed to _fight you!”_ Fig shouts, pushing Ayda away. “I can’t — I can’t do that. Not to you.”

Ayda shakes her head. “What were the exact words Vraz the Mean said to you?”

“She said… she said…” Fig wracks her brain, but all of the emotions pouring out are making it hard. 

“It’s alright,” Ayda says quietly. “Take your time, I’m _here.”_

Fig closes her eyes and inhales sharply, and moves her thumb across the scar on her index finger where she drew blood to sign Vraz’s infernal contract. Remembering the pain brings the words back immediately. “ _I, Figueroth the Faithless, daughter of Gorthalax the Insatiable, swear to best this musically-inclined celestial in a duel of music and might in exchange for one year on the prime material plane, or else my soul belongs to Vraz the Mean for an undetermined period,”_ she recites, before blinking up at Ayda.

“A duel of music and might,” Ayda points out. “Nowhere does that include a fight to the death.”

Fig blinks. 

“Wait,” she says, eyes twitching and looking in all directions except Ayda. “She-She _messed up?_ I, I don’t even have to kill you? She was pretty clear on wanting to throttle you for what a past you did to her all those years ago, was she- did she- _What?”_

Ayda smiles. “Sometimes when people are angry, they do not think as clearly as they should. She relied too much on implication,” she says. She steps back, her wings extending to their full length, and Ayda’s eyes glow as small _prestidigitation_ spells spark off of her hands. “I, Ayda Aguefort, formally challenge Figueroth the Faithless to a musical duel.”

No one but the night is present to hear the declaration, but Fig’s heart flutters all the same. Ayda flies into the air, hurling _firebolts_ at loose sticks and letting them catch ablaze, the light making way for a small arena to come forth. Fig leaves the infernal lute on the floor, as lovely as it is... Instead, she pulls out two little trinkets she hasn’t used in a long time — her lute, her _first_ lute; brown and plain and lovely — and a ruby-red flute that her dad gave her on her fourth birthday.

“For you.” Fig declares, handing Ayda the flute. She holds it like a treasure.

“For me.” Ayda echoes.

A soft smile presses into the apples of Fig’s cheeks. “After you,” she says, gesturing to Ayda. 

“Of course,” Ayda says, pressing her mouth to the flute and beginning to play. She isn’t bad, despite what she’s said before — Fig isn’t sure Ayda can be bad at anything at this point — but this is an Ayda that grew up as a wizard. With her head in books and libraries rather than instruments and concert halls. They begin to circle each other, the melody twirling around them like a breeze.

After a minute, Fig begins to pluck at her lute. They play together, the sounds of the wind and strings weaving together in harmony. 

At the end of the song, Ayda smiles and concedes. “You win.”

The wind blows harshly and hot as the words leave her lips, and Fig’s infernal lute zooms in between them from where it was on the ground. Bursting out of the strings is Vraz the Mean. She is still tall and beautiful, but her eyes are cold and cruel. It is all too familiar.

“Figueroth the Faithless!” Vraz announces, her lovely face shifting uncannily between the two figures before her. Beneath the cool calculating cruelty, there is grim satisfaction. “The contract's terms have been settled, and thu—Wait. She’s still alive!?” Vraz turns dramatically, the cold trading for hot fury burning in her eyes. 

Fig straightens her back. Her hands shake a little bit. “The terms were—”

“The _terms_ were to best her in a duel of music and might!” Vraz snarls. 

“And I did that,” Fig says. “That didn’t stipulate, ah, death. Just winning the duel. Which I did.”

Vraz looks like she’s about to try and wring Fig’s life out of her. “That held _implications!”_

Fig smiles, eyes watery, and flips Vraz off. “Well, don’t rely on implications next time. You tried! Bye-bye now, tell my parents that I say hi!”

Vraz the Mean glares daggers at both Fig and Ayda, the deadly look uncanny on her lovely face. Little fireballs erupt in her irises when she looks at Ayda. “You!”

“Me,” Ayda says matter of factly. “Goodbye now, Vraz the Mean,” Ayda waves a hand, and the light goes out. Fig stares at the lute, in all its glory, and turns back to Ayda.

“Let’s go back to Leviathan,” Fig says, opening her arms for Ayda to embrace her. 

Ayda smiles. “No need to do the long travel, Fig! Now that I know where I am going, I can simply teleport us back to the Compass Points. Although, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“May I kiss you?”

Fig’s eyes widen, and a smile graces her face. “Yeah, you can.”

And so, she does.

The scent of revelry is evident everywhere in the Gold Gardens, but on stage, it is less so. Perhaps the glitz and glamor push it all away. The feeling of eyes on her, intoxicated or sober alike, grounds Fig in the performance. The rush, the thrill, the joy. The light hits Fig’s face, and the crowds cheer. 

Music begins to play, and Fig begins to sing.

(The stage is where Fig shines, and that much is clear. She does not need a spotlight, she is her own beacon. She is radiant, Ayda thinks. _Radiant_ is a funny word. It is used to describe kings and queens and monarchs — gods and deities — priests and clerics. That alone does not capture the scope of Fig’s excellence. She is lovely, loud, stubborn, reckless, and _radiant._ Her eyes sparkle when she sings, and Ayda thinks she would like to see that sparkle in Fig’s eyes forever. She would especially like to be the reason those eyes continue sparkling.)

The crowds of the Gold Gardens do not stop their revelry, but the party gets quieter. People watch, enamored by Figueroth _Faeth,_ and her chest glows with pride. She finishes one song and then sings another, another, and another. She looks in the crowd. She finds Kristen and Tracker holding hands and leaning close. Fabian and Ragh are dancing together, joyous and bright. Riz and Adaine are seated at a table, talking quietly, and nursing drinks. Gorgug is dancing too, with a shorter woman Fig does not recognize.

And then Fig finds Ayda. Ayda is lovely, hands poised and ready to clap as soon as Fig finishes. She is smiling so widely, and Fig thinks she is the most beautiful person she has ever seen. Warmth blooms in her heart, and if Fig’s high note is higher than it needs to be, that is nobody’s business but her own.

In the end, she did not need a magic lute to make people like her music. 

When the song finishes, piles of flowers make beautiful arches to fall at Fig’s feet. Fig does not collect any of them. She runs off stage, and jumps in her own arc, right into Ayda’s arms.

“You did amazingly,” Ayda breathes. “May I kiss you?”

Fig smiles widely. “Yeah. Of course.”

And so, she does.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope u enjoyed... spiritually i am pressing Like on all of ur comments... follow me @ironchoirs on twt for friends at the table thoughts, and please follow the lovely artist @MidnightFox452 on twitter / @midnightfox450 on tumblr who did my bb art! <3


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